


Talking Dead

by RueRambunctious



Category: Abarat Series - Clive Barker, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Denial, First Impressions, Healing, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Multi, Running Away, relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 19:56:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12153705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RueRambunctious/pseuds/RueRambunctious
Summary: Molly goes to Minnesota to get AWAY from tall, entitled, otherworldly men.Jim is a bit miffed it has taken Nose so long to ask for his help.





	1. Chapter 1

Molly was quite a positive person. She liked fluffy kittens and fluffier jumpers and being around dead people who were patient enough to let her figure them out in her own time.

However, there were some days she could not help but be exasperated. These days usually involved thoughts of tall sociopaths or short psychopaths.

Today's exasperation involved a lanky, skeletal skinhead who had _supposedly_ been dead when he was shoved into a black, zippered bag like a piece of dry cleaning.

He was rather more emaciated than Molly was used to seeing, but she had not been out of the UK long enough to know whether starvation was normal here. Minnesota had been described to her as a reasonably well off state, but she had been yet to see much more of it than the airport and the hospital where she now worked. Molly had been in America long enough to distrust buses and almost long enough to remember that jaywalking was, absurdly, a felony.

Molly stopped thinking about America's sociopolitical sphere, or indeed anything else, as the skinhead's eerily scarred, blue lips parted. He sputtered, stretching his mouth wide to take a rasping breath.

Molly waited and did not scream. The dead made noises sometimes. She was not unused to the trapped gasses expelled from dead bodies.

The man jerked upright, eyes streaming as he coughed, and the skinhead grasped at his thin chest as his frame shuddered.

Molly patted the alleged cadaver's back. It seemed like the reasonable thing to do. She didn't have much experience with the living.

He turned crazed eyes on her and forced his breathing to regulate itself. Molly withdrew her hand quickly and the skinhead seemed relieved.

“Where am I?” he croaked out after a few attempts Molly waited patiently through.

“The morgue,” Molly answered with unpractised bluntness. Her eyes flew further open as she realised this was likely not reasurring. She squeaked, “You're, um, not dead though, obviously!”

The former corpse blinked with more detachment than Molly expected and looked down at himself. He ran his thin hands over bruises and contusions assessingly. His lips pursed a little in apparent pain, discolouring his horrific scars, but for the most part he maintained a neutral expression. 

“Are you alright?” Molly asked. “Should I call somebody? I should probably get you a doctor.”

The skinhead gave the ugly scar through his gut a concerned look but shook his head. Without raising his eyes he said, “No doctor. Is anyone… Am I alone?”

Molly scrambled for his file. “No contact details listed. Who are you looking for?”

He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Candy? Candy Quackenbush? Or even Letheo, I suppose.”

“Do you have a mob- a cell number?” Molly queried. There was a steady efficiency to her voice that she wondered at inwardly.

The skinhead stared at her. “A… no.” He rubbed his temples. “Is this the Hereafter still?” he asked. “Candy… What did she call it? Chickentown?”

Molly wrinkled her brow. “I… I'm not from here, sorry; I don't know much of the area. We're in St. Paul's. My phone is in my locker; I could pull up Google and show you where we are?”

The skinhead stared at her. It seemed like he found this an alien and unwelcome offer but he agreed to it anyway in his scratchy voice. Molly didn't admonish him for neglecting to say 'please'; it was not every day that a person woke up on her slab.

Molly hurried out of the room and considered the situation. Could she have imagined this? Perhaps Mary's death and the impact it had had on… the others... hurt Molly more than the she had acknowledged.

She listened to the young man walking around the room behind her. That did not seem like a hallucination or delusion to her, but if her grasp of reality was currently cracked then it would feel real, wouldn't it?

Molly sighed, straightened her spine, and scurried over to her locker.

She returned to the lab brandishing her phone and swallowed as she scanned the room: it appeared to be empty.

The skinhead pushed away from shadows cast by cold, metal cabinets and looked over Molly oddly. She felt her nerves tingle. The skinhead was evidently mistrustful and in pain, but there was a predatory confidence that marked his walk. This stranger was dangerous, Molly surmised.

She was alone in a room with an undead stranger. Molly began to feel nervous but then she tittered lightly at the ridiculousness of it.

The young man narrowed his eyes at her at once. Evidently he hated being laughed at.

Molly tried to smooth her expression. “I brought my phone,” she announced placatingly.

He grunted but did not reach for the device. Instead he fluttered his skeletal hand at her in a gesture that commanded her to use the phone for him. Molly thought vividly of Sherlock, who was older and less like roadkill, and was equally otherworldly and so very, very entitled.

“I've unlocked it,” Molly said stoutly, “but I don't know what you're looking for so you'll need to use it yourself.”

The skinhead gave her a sour look. “We don't use that nonsense on Gorgossium. Or most of the islands. Make it work.”


	2. Chapter 2

Molly stared at the tall man for a beat. “You can't use a smart phone?”

He did not appreciate her dubious tone and straightened his back aggressively. His scarred lips pressed tightly together, discolouring themselves in a way Molly found morbidly fascinating, then the man curled his lips away from his gums and growled, “I am not _from_ here; I told you.”

“You're from even further away than me if you can't use a phone,” Molly mumbled, but she held up a hand placatingly as the skinhead clenched his bony fists and gave her an ugly look. “It's alright; I can show you,” Molly added in a voice somewhere between a sigh and something which sounded genuinely authorative.

The tall man rolled his shoulders and jaw as though to calm himself and accept such help was not a behaviour he was used to. “Go on,” he said querulously. 

Molly gave him a look, but held out the phone screen and pointed at her browser icon. “Okay, so if we pull up the internet then-”

“'Internet'?” the skinhead questioned.

Molly blinked. “You haven't encountered the, uh, internet before?”

He responded with a sulky look. “Do I look like the Commexo Kid?”

“I don't know who that is, but you speak perfect English for someone who doesn't know what the internet is,” Molly muttered suspiciously, but she tapped her phone screen regardless. “This is Google Maps,” she declared. “Are you looking?”

The skinhead gave her a disgruntled look but bowed his head over her phone obediently. Molly pointed at a pulsing colour on the screen. “You see that blue dot there?” she asked. “That's us; it's where we are right now.”

The stranger started to open his mouth to make what his expression suggested would be a rude comment, but Molly ignored that and pinched the image on her phone screen. The map zoomed out.

“This is Saint Paul's here,” Molly explained as she circled the area with her index finger. “You see how our blue dot is in part of the hospital?”

The skinhead's posture became slightly mollified. He nodded reluctantly.

Molly handed him the device. “Have a look around; do you see any street names you recognise?”

He reached out long limbs for the phone and watched Molly hesitantly for a moment as he hovered thin fingers over the glass screen. “I touch it… how?” he grumbled.

“Like this; look,” Molly said gently, steadying the phone with one hand and patiently displaying the necessary finger movements. The skinhead's eyelids fluttered in surprise at the fearless intimacy the woman showed in bringing their hands so close together. She was shorter than him and bowed her head over the screen as she efficiently manipulated the map. Molly looked up to check his comprehension and the skinhead swallowed uncomfortably. His nostrils flared as he brought his head closer to the screen and swiped at the illuminated image under his fingers, his expression changed to one of concentration. Tension in his jaw betrayed self-consciousness.

“Yeah, just like that,” Molly said. He blinked at the top of her head. “You can also drag the map around like this, look, if you want to look in a particular direction...”

The supposed cadaver copied her gestures carefully.

“Does anything seem familiar?” Molly asked.

“No,” he stated.

Molly pursed her lips. “Well, we're in one of the main parts of Minnesota, so...”

“I don't know Minnesota,” the skinhead declared. “Candy is from Chickentown, Minnesota.”

“Mmm, zoom out a bit; we'll try to find Chickentown,” Molly suggested. “You were here with this Candy person then? She was showing you around? So she'll be looking for you?”

He looked away guiltily. “She doesn't… I don't...”

“She doesn't know where you are?” Molly asked. “Or she doesn't want to know where you are?”

The skinhead pushed the phone back into her hands. “I don't understand what she wants,” he mutters.

“Well, if we find her we can ask her,” Molly said stoutly. “Unless you think you can figure out your way home without her?”

The skin twitched at the suggestion of 'home' and brushed his hands defensively over the wound near his stomach.

“If it's safe for you to go home?” Molly amended observantly.

The tall man eyed her warily. “What else would you suggest?”

“Well, we could try to find Candy on Facebook. Quackenbush, you said her name was? It doesn't sound like there would be many others with a name like that,” Molly mused. “Or we could try to find your other friend -Letheo?- if you can tell me anything helpful about him.”

“What is a Facebook?” the skinhead muttered.

Molly got the feeling from the surly, slightly embarrassed look on his face that he was not trolling her, and was not used to having to ask questions either. “Here, I'll show you,” she said gently. The man stepped closer as she pulled open the next app and was inundated with a variety of moving images. Molly typed 'Candy Quackenbush' into the search bar.

The skinhead grabbed Molly's phone and stared at the small square displaying a bored-looking teenager. “That's her,” he blurted.

Molly's offense at his poor manners was halted by the look of utter fixation the young man had on his pale face. He stroked the photograph gently with a fingertip and made a noise of alarm when the image disappeared.

The skinhead turned to Molly with an expression of distress and reproach, but his attention was swiftly reclaimed by new images which appeared on the phone's screen.

“These are more photographs of Candy,” the skinhead announced. “Before she came to Abarat? Her hair is so long.” He trailed through the images greedily, not seeming to mind the young woman in the photographs never looked particularly happy.

Molly watched the skinhead make an irate noise at her phone. He swung it under her gaze indignantly. “What does it mean, _I do not have permission_ to see more of Candy's Book of Faces?”

“It's her privacy setting,” Molly explained. “You have to be her Friend to see everything on her _Facebook_.”

The skinhead looked deeply wounded. “I know she is hesitant to marry me still but she does not consider me a friend?”

“A Facebook Friend is different from how she might feel about you in real life,” Molly reassured. “You have to have a Facebook account of your own before you can request to be someone's Friend on it, and then they have to accept you...”

“Candy has not accepted me,” the young man says bitterly. “I would be her friend!”

“Well, you could create a Facebook account and ask to be Candy's Friend on it,” Molly suggested.

He turned wide eyes on her. “I could?”

“You could, but first we should try to get you where you need to be,” Molly commanded. “You see where it says Candy lives in Chickentown? You need to tap on that.”

The tall young man obeyed, but looked disgruntled when the small tiles with Candy's image were replaced with information. He held out the phone to Molly with a demanding look.

Molly took the phone and scrolled to the map. She picked a street name at random from the overview of Chickentown and switched back to Google, where she quickly calculated directions. 

She winced. “It's quite far away,” she said.


	3. Chapter 3

“Okay, so I've printed out a map and note of which buses you'll need to take, but we'll have to find you some clothes first,” Molly announced calmly, wandering back into her laboratory brandishing some papers.

She paused in suspicion. Something was off, although she was not entirely certain what.

The skinhead looked back at her balefully and reached for the printouts. Molly handed them over and surveyed their surroundings.

“Alright,” she said coldly, “what have you stolen from the chem store?”

For someone who had managed to sit up and walk away from his own autopsy the tall young man looked decidedly sour. Molly was not intimidated by the way his scarred lips discoloured when they pressed together in a thin, querulous line.

“Lose your tongue as well as your manners, did you?” Molly chided, tilting her head to challenge the lanky creature.

“I am not _used_ to be being spoken to like that,” the skinhead warned sharply although that was not entirely true.

“You can get used to it if you're going to steal,” the small brunette scolded. “Put it back or explain yourself.”

The young man clenched his bony hands in displeasure. “I… It's _necessary_ ,” he argued.

“I'll be the judge of that,” Molly countered. She strode forward and dumped the borrowed clothing on the surface before her. “Whilst you're deliberating you can get _dressed_. It's cold in here.”

The skinhead's gaze flickered. “I...”

Molly crossed her arms. “Put those clothes on. Sit down. Then tell me why you're so reluctant to give back what's not yours.”

“I'm accustomed to taking what I like,” he grumbled but sloped towards the offered clothing.

“No wonder Candy left you in Minnesota alone,” Molly commented dryly.

The skinhead looked up swiftly from the fabric in his hands but the anger which flashed in his eyes faded to sadness. He turned away sharply and shook out the clothes before pulling them on stiffly. He winced as the movement twisted the wound on his stomach.

Molly took a half step towards him. “Nothing in my store will ease that… We could go upstairs and get you seen to...”

“I don't need help,” the young man snapped.

Molly frowned. “Really? Because it doesn't seem like your day's been going so well this far.”

The skinhead snarled and surged forward on his long, unstable legs to push past Molly. The movement exerted his body overly and he stumbled past her, his vision blurring for a moment.

Molly instinctively twisted around to catch him. The skinhead gasped harshly at her sudden touch and he froze to the spot.

A noise drew Molly's attention from a corner of a work surface.

A teenager quickly rose to his knees and stepped out from hiding. Molly barely registered his alarmed, yellow eyes as she stared instead at his skin. His shining, mottled, _reptilian_ skin.

The skinhead turned his head to snap but kept his unsteady feet firmly as they were. “I told you to stay hidden!”

The scaled boy flinched. “You looked… I… Sorry...”

Molly ripped her gaze away from the odd teenager feeling guilty for her open attention. She looked up at the skinhead. “You were taking something for him?”

The supposed cadaver looked uncomfortable. “It's been too long since I last made his antidote.”

“You're a scientist,” Molly surmised, “where you're from?”

The tall skinhead pursed his lips. “Not exactly. But I had an education.”

The younger male gripped his own upper arms awkwardly and licked full yet dry lips. “Can… Can I have it, please?”

Molly ran a concerned, assessing gaze over the peculiar young specimen. “Does it hurt? Sit down.” She turned quickly to the skinhead. “Are you well enough? Do you need my help to prepare his medication?”

The skinhead gave her a complex look then nodded shortly and stiffly led her towards a table laden with lab equipment. He looked lost for words for a moment then delivered clipped instructions curtly, his tiredness and discomfort evident. 

His shoulders softened marginally as Molly followed his guidance efficiently.

The tall man glanced over at his young companion. “I can't make it quite the same way I would at home, so you'll be getting a needle, but it'll work all the same.”

The teenager blanched a little, which did not make total sense to Molly as she could see crude tattoos on his thin arm as he obediently rolled up one sleeve.

The scaled boy spasmed suddenly, and Molly stared at the odd coloration of his skin. Dark turquoises and purples on his exposed arm turned, pulsing, from something smooth as human skin to patches which seemed undeniably reptilian.

Even under his scales something about the teen's cheeks told Molly of the youngster's humiliation. It was clear he found his condition shameful and her knowledge of it upset him. Carrion reached for a syringe as Molly searched for words of reassurance.

The scaled boy's large yellow eyes grew wider still in childish fright. He swallowed, tenser with fear than the evident pain he was in.

“Would you… do me a favour?” the teen asked the skinhead timidly.

The scarred lips pursed before the skinhead inclined his shorn scalp towards the scaled teen. “Am I in the habit of granting favours?” the older one questioned forcefully, before taking a breath and softly muttering, “What do you need?”

The boy's hood had fallen back some and revealed dark curls damp with sweat. “Can you… Can you squeeze my hand? When you...”

The skinhead curled his lips in disgust but then accommodatingly held out one hand to the youth before Molly could respond in any way. She could see the teenager was scared, desperate and _hurting_ but the other male's emotions were less clear. The skinhead looked put upon as he prepared the syringe with one hand, giving a small shake of his head to refuse Molly's further help, and grimaced in pain of his own as he tugged the curly-haired teenager closer.

The teen panted and whimpered as his skin continued to pulse as though it was almost a separate, sentient thing. He seemed both fearful of and desperate for the needle his companion drew to his skin.

The youth mewled as the needle pierced his arm and green liquid pushed its way visibly underneath his near translucent, petrol puddled skin.

The skinhead pulled away and tried not to respond to the soft noise his companion made when he let him go. The skinhead wiped a bit of cotton over the youth's arm. The jumping skin seemed to already be quieting its agitation.

The skinhead turned and cleared a surface. “Lie down,” he ordered curtly.

The young man instantly obeyed. He was sniffling softly, eyes downcast, but he seemed very grateful indeed.

“What do you say?” the skinhead prompted. His tone was fierce, not at all the soothing type one might use on a very young child.

Nonetheless the prone teenager was quick to utter a response which seemed often practised. “Thank you, Lord.”

Something in the way the skinhead stood suggested to Molly that the now less scaly youth was not thanking his creator. The skinhead grunted in response and began coaxing the remaining batch of green liquid into a container.

“What is that stuff?” Molly asked.

“Green thuaz, more or less,” the tall man responded as though that might mean something to her.

Molly turned her gaze over the reclining teen watching her companion needfully. His condition was quite unlike anything she was familiar with, so much so that Molly almost questions her sanity.

“What's wrong with him?” Molly asked gently.

The skinhead gave his younger companion an unkind look. “He has a touch of the beast.”

“What does that mean?” Molly pressed.

“It means you need to be wary of his bite,” the skinhead states.


	4. Chapter 4

“I… I don't bite when I'm dosed,” the curly-haired teenager told Molly. He looked relieved to have received whatever the other young man had concocted, some of the panic eased from his features, but he was evidently exhausted. His eyes remained a bright, unnatural yellow beneath his sweaty locks.

Molly felt vulnerable beneath the strange youth's gaze. However, it seemed clear to her that this child was the one most in need.

“What's your name?” she asked kindly.

He blinked at her, confused to be spoken to directly, then turned quickly to his companion for guidance.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” Molly soothed.

Although there was evidently some streak of cruelty in the skinhead he stood in front of the younger boy protectively. “Of course you aren't. We've had what we required and now we're leaving.”

Molly reaches for the maps she had printed out. “Are you sure you should be travelling?”

The skinhead looks bemused, “Whatever do you mean?”

“ _He's_ really sick-”

“The boy is fine. I have what he needs,” the tall man snapped.

“And _you_ should be in a hospital bed,” Molly continued fiercely. “You look like you've been _mauled_.”

The former cadaver blinked stupidly. “That should not concern you.”

“Of course it concerns me,” Molly retorted. “Neither of you look well enough to be out of bed much less travelling distances.”

The skinhead seemed flustered, and by the way his younger companion was looking at him, it was not an expression typically at home on his scarred face. “We'll manage.”

“If you keep going around stealing things to make his medicine you're going to get yourselves put in jail,” Molly warned. 

“I've been in jail plenty of times,” the scaled boy piped up suddenly in an attempt to seem assertive, “it don't scare me none.”   
The skinhead gave him a look. “Hereafter jail, without green thuaz.” 

The youth instantly closed his mouth.

“You don't look old enough to have been in jail,” Molly said in surprise.

“You don't look young enough for that sweater,” he retorted. He gasped a moment later as his companion swatted him with a frown.

“Enough, beast-boy,” the skinhead warned.

The curly-headed teen gazed at the older male thoughtfully. Whilst he seemed used to being struck, he did not appear familiar with the skinhead telling him to be nicer.

“Do you have enough of that, um, green thuaz to last you until you get home?” Molly asked.

The young one glanced back at her with widened golden eyes. “No,” he admitted.

“We'll get more,” the skinhead shrugged.

“By stealing?” Molly said.

The tall one rolled his eyes and gestured at the yellow-eyed youth. “Normally he's a clever boy and knows how to use the shadows,” he said. “We'll get what we need.”

Molly sighed. “You're going to get yourselves locked up or worse. You're not _fit_.”

“Luckily for you,” the skinhead snapped. “I am not accustomed to being argued with.”

“Might be why Candy left you,” Molly said unkindly. “Unfortunately, I feel I have a duty of care. I can't let you get yourselves killed.”

“You can't stop us,” the skinhead argued.

“Who said anything about stopping you?” Molly scoffed. “I'm going to make sure you get home in one piece.”

The curly-haired teen looked at his companion anxiously. “But Mater Motley...” he whispered anxiously.

The taller male straightened but did not look as certain as his voice suggested when he insisted, “She's nothing to be afraid of.”

“Look at the state of you,” the youth sneered in retort. Quickly thinking his bravery foolishness, the yellow-eyed teen darted out of reach. He found himself unsteady on his feet and had to grab the nearby metal surface to stay fully upright.

“Who's Mater Motley?” Molly asked.

The pair look surprised she did not know, even though they were both clearly from elsewhere. It was a person of high importance, it would seem.

Something about the way the skinhead defensively covered his wounds when he replied, “Nobody to concern yourself with,” told Molly what she needed to know.

“Motley did that to you?” the brunet asked.

“And her stitchlings,” the teenager added whilst his companion kept those scarred lips closed.

“What are stitchlings?” Molly asked.

“You don't want to know,” the skinhead said shortly.

Molly leaned back against the table. “Alright, so tell me why they hurt you.”

The skinhead suddenly spun his face away bitterly. He squeezed his fingernails into his palms and admitted, “I'm a disappointment.”

“Aren't we all?” Molly said with a sad smile. “What happened?”

“I failed to kill Candy,” the skinhead muttered.

Molly arched a brow. “You were upset Candy wasn't your Facebook friend even though you tried to kill her?”

“I didn't _want_ to kill her,” the tall young man sulked. “I _tried_ to help her. But she wouldn't listen.”

“Would you listen to someone who was meant to kill you?” Molly pointed out.

The skinhead blinked. “I _apologised_ ,” he said after a beat.

Molly rolled her eyes and pushed a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “Maybe she's still upset with you.”

“She might forgive you if you stop trying to kill her,” the teenager said abruptly.

“What would you know about it?” the skinhead snapped.

“Candy saved me even though I kidnapped her and she was mad with me,” the yellow-eyed boy says.

“Oh great, kidnapping as well,” Molly muttered.

The skinhead gave his companion an exasperated look, although the teen's words had clearly set thoughts turning within the scarred man's head. Molly recognised hurt feelings and unrequited love enough to understand the lanky creature ached for this Candy person. Despite a kidnapping and some attempted murders. 

Of course if a body started breathing on her table these would be the sort of issues it would have. Molly had a taste for unhealthy, irrational, melodramatic relationships, so _of course_ this would be more of the same.

She might have flown hours and hours across the world, all the way to _Minnesota_ , but that did not matter a jot. Molly Hooper was a magnet for chaos.

If the brunet was honest with herself, she had started to miss it.

She eyed the strange pair analytically. “For the record,” Molly said, “if she can hurt you like that your grandmother isn't worth pleasing. However, if you want to go home, I might know someone who can help you both.”


	5. Chapter 5

Molly walked towards her locker and opened it sharply. She stared at its contents for a beat long enough to make the young men uneasy, then she rummaged around noisily. 

She looked decidedly less confident as she swung the locker closed and held a dark little oblong to herself.

“What is that?” the skinhead asked.

Molly unwound a charging cable and walked to the nearest power outlet. Shoving the unused-looking plug into a socket she dared a glance over her shoulder. “What is what?” she asked. She pushed the cable into a cheap, black mobile phone.

The skinhead walked over slowly (his gait a mixture of distrust and pain) then peered curiously at the dead phone. The tattooed youth crept after him in subdued interest. “Is this like your other Book of Faces?” the taller male asked.

The phone chirped quietly as it woke up and Molly could not quite keep her face straight as the pair startled.

“It's another phone,” Molly said. “I need to charge this one before I can use it.”

“Does it not like your charges?” the curly-haired teen asked almost shyly.

Molly batted her eyelids slowly as she considered his ignorance. She trailed her pale hand over the charging cable. “Phones need energy to work. When I charge it I am attaching it to a power source so it can drink up the energy it needs. That noise it made was it telling me it has been asleep for a long time and has woken up.”

“Is your other phone not hungry?” the boy asked.

“I fed it this morning,” Molly explained. She toyed with the charging phone with an odd expression. “This one only gets woken up for very specific reasons.”

“Like what?” the skinhead asked.

Molly shivered and turned her head towards the man without quite meeting his eyes. “It's a burner phone. It's only used to contact certain people.”

His pale eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who are you contacting?”

“I can't contact anyone with it until it's charged - _fed_ \- more,” Molly said without a hint of fear. “When it's ready I'll call… an old friend. He'll know how to help you.”

The skinhead pressed his lips together. Molly could not help but feel fascinated by how the movement spread different colours around his scarring. She wondered what story was attached to the mouth that had evidently once been sewn closed, but she did not ask for details. He asked her instead, “You trust this person?”

Molly tugged the sleeves of her knitted sweater down over her hands defensively. “For something like this, yes,” she answered distantly.

The teenager seemed to drink in some of her self-consciousness and mirrored Molly's action with his own sleeves. “They… They haven't seen someone like me before, have they?”

“There aren't any beast-boys in the Hereafter but you,” the skinhead said absently.

Molly looked over with a frown. “Don't call him that,” she said.

The former cadaver raised a brow archly. “That's what he is. Should I call him _afflicted_ to ease your weak sensibilities?”

Molly's eyes flashed. “I don't have _weak sensibilities_. I work with the _dead_. I'm protesting because he evidently doesn't like being called that.”

“I don't care what he likes,” the skinhead bristled.

His younger companion looked at each of them nervously. The skinhead glowered at him. “What, you think _this_ one's going to save you? No one will.”

“That's enough,” Molly snapped.

Both young men startled a little. It was clear there were few who raised their voice at the tall man and he did not like it. 

“You cannot tell me what to do,” the skinhead complained.

Molly put the charging phone down and turned to face him properly. “I have had _quite enough_ of men who tell me that. I assure you I can tell you _whatever I damned well like_ , to be clear.”

His frown crumpled in a moment of uncertainty at being spoken to thus but the skinhead quickly recovered. “Hereafter or not, you _will_ address me with the proper respect!”

“Those wounds on your body have not taught you any sense, have they?” Molly derided. “You probably thought you could get away with throwing your weight around with that Mater Motley person too, didn't you?” 

The teenager went very pale whilst the skinhead coloured angrily. “My grandmother is not...”

His retort died in his throat and his shoulders slumped. The scarred young man suddenly looked rather lost.

“She doesn't deserve my respect,” he sulked after a moment. His temper-flushed skin bleached as a memory brushed across his unhappy eyes. He shook his head as though to dislodge the thought and glared at Molly. “And you summon even less. Who do you think you are, woman?”

Molly raised her brows in warning. “ _I'm_ the one who has been trying to help your undeserving self,” she pointed out. “As I'm currently the best chance you have of getting to where you need to be I suggest you reserve your poor manners for those who will put up for them; _I won't_.”

Molly found herself breathing a little heavily after her response. It was coming more naturally to assert herself to men like _him_ early on. She wondered whether that meant she was changing or had already changed. She wondered whether it was a good thing.

The skinhead responded as though wholly unaware that telling him off was drawing memories and doubt to the forefront of the woman's mind. He straightened his spine, grimacing at the ache of stretching out his stomach wounds, and spat, “I am Prince Carrion, the Lord of Midnight, and you will not speak to me thus!”

Molly stared him down. The fire in her unrepentant eyes almost equalled the eerie glow of the tattooed teen's golden orbs. It made the tall man hesitate momentarily; his young companion chewed at his thick lower lip anxiously.

“I did not bow for the Napoleon of Crime; I'm not about to start with you,” Molly said shortly. She turned her back and picked up the burner phone. Ignoring the skinhead's pout at the back of her head she hit the phone's home button and assessed the device's level of charge.

There was certainly enough to make a call now. 

Molly took a rallying breath. Once she made this call she could not unmake it.

She had sworn not to speak to him again, and yet she had kept this phone. He was indeed likely to be capable of helping these odd souls, but Molly knew that was not her main reason for keying in the number she had memorised.

However much she had told herself she would not contact him, Molly had known fine well that she had kept this phone with every intention of calling him sometime.

And now she had an excuse.


	6. Chapter 6

Molly's mouth was suddenly very dry. She was so hyper-alert she could actually feel her eyelashes softly brushing her face as she blinked out of time with the call connecting tone.

Her call was answered surprisingly swiftly. Molly felt a surge of trepidation, joy and relief which almost made her sway with the force of it.

Molly found she had gone mute. She could swear she recognised him by the faint sound of his breath alone. 

This was a terrible idea.

Molly mentally shook herself. She was not an idiot. She straightened her back, reminded herself of her purpose (her excuse really, if she was honest about it) and opened her mouth to speak.

“Tell Daddy what the matter is, Nose. Does someone need to die horribly?”

He beat her to it. Jim's voice quite knocked her for six; it had been so _long_. Horribly long. 

And that fact _should not_ have made her ache so.

The rational, ordinary person would be utterly relieved to have avoided this particular psychopath for so long. Molly was mostly passive and shy enough to pass for normal, but oh, ordinary she was not.

“Is that any way to answer a phone call, Jim?” Molly asked. She felt quite giddy.

“...Aren't you glad I even _picked up_ this phone?” the little psychopath asked her slyly.

“Don't get smug, Jim,” Molly said in a clipped voice. Supposedly dead crime lord or not, he was the sort you had to establish boundaries with. Because he liked to waltz all over them. Wearing something frivolous that wasn't his.

“Aren't you glad I don't have you on loudspeaker?” Jim drawled. “I might have had to punish you for being so _rude_.”

“You needn't showboat; I don't have you on loudspeaker either,” Molly said with a roll of her eyes she is certain he will somehow notice.

“Well you're just no fun at all, are you?” he chided. Molly wondered why she was relaxing in response to his voice. Part of her had spent so _long_ insisting she didn't miss him.

Molly buffed her nails on her sweater for something to do. “Are you still in the business of 'fixing things'?”

“You crass thing, Mollikins, is this a _business call_? After all the _time_ I've pined for you?” Jim said.

Molly chuckled. “You're not funny, you know.” If she had been younger and using a cabled phone she might have twisted the coiled wire around her fingers with the same smile she used now.

“Well now I know you've completely gone to ruin in the Americas,” Jim teased. “Lying _and_ consorting with a criminal kingpin. You're a _bad girl_ , Molly Hooper.”

“How peculiar; I don't _recall_ sending you a postcard telling you I'd moved,” Molly responded.

“Anyone would think we weren't _friends_ the way you speak,” Jim said.

Molly rolls her eyes again. “Speaking of friends, I've met a couple of… people who could benefit from your services.”

“Ooh, who can I send my Tiger to dismember? If the gossip's _gripping_ I might even come deal with them myself. How's _that_ for friendship, Nose?”

“You're going to be _an utter delight to them_ ,” Molly asserted. “Absolutely no deviation.”

“Molls, what's the fun in that?” Jim pouted. “I wait all this time by my phone for you to call, and for this?”

“You'll just have to take solace in the sound of my voice,” Molly said unsympathetically. “Now, you tend to know nasties. What do you know of a woman called Mater Motley?”

For a moment there was utter silence on the line. Molly threw a quick glance at the two young men with her and wondered what Jim's reaction signified.

There was the noise of a sharp inhale over Jim's teeth before her spoke. “Molly, darling, what do you know about Abarat?”

Molly blinked and considered her proximity to her companions warily. “Practically nothing,” she said, “but I've got a couple of lads here and one of them's calling himself The Lord Of Midnight?”

Another beat of silence. “Only you, Mollikins,” Jim muttered. “I'm on my way.”

“Let me know when your flight will get in,” Molly responded.

Jim made a sneering noise. “I'll be there inside three quarters of an hour. I'll send Severin ahead.”

Apparently Jim had not lost the ability to surprise her. “...You're in Minnesota?” she queried.

She could now hear Jim moving about. “What's surprising about that?” he muttered to her, sounding like he was holding his phone with a hunched shoulder now. “I'll have you know 10.6% of Minnesota's ancestry is Irish. For all you know I'm here visiting family.”

“Are you?” Molly asked bluntly.

Jim hummed distractedly. “Put it this way: I'm not responsible for what happens for the next day or three. Don't watch the news.”

“Jimmy, we spoke about you doing bad things to people,” Molly sighed.

“What can I say: I'm simply _terrible_ without your guiding light, Nose.” He opens and slams a car door. “Hang on.”

Molly hummed in obedience. She watched her companions from beneath her lashes. They were being surprisingly quiet to accommodate the phone call.

“Nose,” Jim said, sounding much clearer again. A few moments later engine noise added to the call. “I'm tracking Severin right now and his dot has hit your hospital. He'll be with you shortly.”

“Don't you want to know which room I'm in?” Molly asked dryly.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Jim scoffed. “He can read some signage. You're not exactly somewhere _foreign_ are you?”

Molly sighed but did not truly mind at all. “You've been keeping tabs on me, haven't you, Mr King Of Shadows?”

Jim sniffed sounding entirely innocent and therefore, by Molly's experience, damningly guilty. “What do you take me for, Nose? Some kind of deviant?”

“I take you for my friend,” Molly said softly.

Another beat of quiet passed with Molly's ear full of traffic noise. “Wave to the camera, Molls; I can see you,” Jim said mildly.

Molly's lips pursed in something she did not entirely want to call amusement. She turned to the nearest security camera she could see and waved.

Jim chortled teasingly. “Really Molly, you thought I meant the camera you can _see_?”

“You had best be joking, Jim Moriarty,” Molly glowered.

“Say 'hi' to Severin for me,” Jim said.


	7. Chapter 7

It was a bit of a shock for Molly, seeing Severin again. He looked a little older; his hair a little thinner and his eyes a little more tired. She had thought seeing him now might break the spell which surrounded her memories of _back then_ and the adventures they had had together but it didn't. Older or not, seeing Severin again after _talking to Jim_ , well… it rather felt like a dream.

And Severin looked good despite the passage of time: he was strong and fit and possibly even _bigger_ in muscle mass than before, surprisingly.

Severin scouted around the room and cast Molly's companion's an assessing look before taking Molly's pale hand in his tanned one. “You're a sight for sore eyes,” he said fondly.

She squeezed his hand then leaned up on her toes to kiss his stubbled cheek. “I've missed you too.”

Severin enveloped her momentarily in his thick arms and kissed Molly's scalp chastely before his gaze settled once more on the young men in the room.

He was unfazed by the skinhead's scars. “You'll be Prince Carrion, then?” 

The tall young man inclined his head with eyes full of open distrust. “And you will be Severin.”

The blond nodded coolly. He turned his green eyes on the curly-haired youth. “And what should I call you?”

The boy swallowed nervously then straightened his back. “I'm Letheo,” he replied.

Severin nodded and petted Molly's hair absently. “Awfully convenient that people would baulk at your nightmares here,” the muscle-bound man said to the Prince, “makes it so much harder to prove who you are. Or who you're not.”

Prince Carrion narrowed his gaze. “The people with _sense_ baulk at my nightmares in the Abarat too.”

Molly sighed at them both and tapped Severin in warning. She told the skinhead, “The people who work for my friend have a peculiar relationship with fear.”

Severin rolled his eyed but Prince Carrion gave them an assessing look.

Molly's burner phone bleeped and she picked it up quickly. “He's almost here,” she told the others. She gathered her phones and Severin took her arm.

“Where are you going?” he asked. Their companions watched interestedly.

“I'm going to speak to Jim first,” Molly declared.

The skinhead scowled at her outright and his younger companion gave her a suspicious look. “Are we supposed to trust you?” the former cadaver scoffed before Severin could comment.

“You can do as you please,” Molly said dismissively. “I'm going to make sure _Moriarty_ knows to behave before I unleash him.” She turned and gave Severin a warning look. “As for you: no pissing contests.”

Severin sighed. “I'll try to be good,” he muttered.

Letheo wrinkled his nose. “Is that something people do in the Hereafter?”

Severin made a face then tried to explain the expression to the younger male. Molly stepped outside only to immediately be accosted by an irritating little Irishman.

He wrapped himself around her neck. “Darling! I remembered today was our anniversary so I thought I'd say hello, Nose.” 

Molly gave him a look that might curdle milk and extracted herself from his arms. “It isn't.” 

He pouted at her in his ridiculously expensive suit. “I was making up an excuse, Nose. Honestly, haven't you a sense of romance?” 

Molly crossed her arms and remembered one of their many disagreements.“Not after what you did to Tom, no.”

Jim looked chastised for a nanosecond then changed the subject. “I waited and waited because I really wanted to see you,” he whined.

Molly rolled her eyes. “And now you can see me. I might even let you help me, if you can manage to behave yourself.” She gave him a stern look.

Jim feigned being wounded. “What do you take me for?”

Molly arched her brows. “Do you honestly want an answer to that?”

“Maybe I'll just go home and lock myself in my airing cupboard,” Jim groused. All the same he took Molly's hand and tugged her towards her workspace.

Molly followed along reluctantly and was momentarily confused to find Letheo seemed missing from the room. “Have we lost something?” she asked dryly.

“Pretty boy's over there,” Severin said with a sweep of his paw.

Jim cocked his head. “A rubbish bin? Or as the delightful locals are wont to call them, a 'trash can'? Or as I like to call it, your inevitable home? Is it a clue to your true identity or..?” 

Severin gave his employer a very dry look. Molly elbowed Jim with her sharp little bones. “Behind the bin, you idiot.” 

Jim almost squealed but caught sight of Letheo and exclaimed instead, “Dear god it has scales. What have you done, Nose?”

Molly was momentarily both exasperated by Jim's poor manners and puzzled by his assertion: Letheo's scales had disappeared after the dose of thuaz, she had believed.

But no, upon further inspection Molly noticed scales were still present on the youth's skin, just far less noticeably. Jim, of course, had instantly taken note.

He dived towards Letheo and circled the boy merrily. “My, my. Not many of you are brave enough to leave the Abarat. Are you tame? I hope you're not.”

“Jim!” Molly chided.

Letheo had a scar above his right ear from crashing a boat. He exposed it as he nervously tugged at his hair.

The light caught the young man's hand and glistened there. Jim snatched at it in cruel fascination. “Here, come touch his skin. It's not remotely slimy. Isn't he fascinating?” 

“Put Letheo down!” Molly snarled.

Jim sighed theatrically and tossed Letheo's hand away from himself. “Boring,” he sulked.

“You'll find yourself a lot more bored if I lock you in my cubby until you learn some manners,” Molly warned.

Jim chuckled and strolled towards the aforementioned place. He discovered a mirror there and preened himself without care of the others.

“What are you doing now?” Molly snapped.

“We-ell, I certainly need to check my reflection at least 3000 times per day to ascertain I'm still terribly handsome.” 

Molly glowered at him and deadpanned, “I thought it was to check whether you were still a bloodsucker.”

Jim snorted. “You're consorting with some stray afflicted with _beast blood_ and you're calling _me_ a bloodsucker?”

“His teeth get terribly strong, you know,” Prince Carrion piped up suddenly. His eyes glittered wickedly as he explained, “When he needs dosed.”

Jim beamed. “Everyone needs a feral pet, don't they? Why, you should meet Severin's brother. _Beautiful_ specimen.”

“And there I thought you were _my_ feral pet,” Molly quipped. “I did call you here for a reason you know.”

Jim feigned a yawn. “Yes, yes, helping little war lords back to their home country, how unexciting.”

Molly threw out her arms. “Yawning? You're bored? You've just met a lizard person and you're bored? I could scream.” 

Jim smirked at her. “I am so terribly exhausted from all that nothing I did yesterday, as funded by my wicked lifestyle.”

Molly crossed her arms. “If you did _nothing_ all yesterday why do I need to avoid watching the news?”

“I told you I had nothing to do with that,” Jim scoffed. His smirk shrunk pointedly, “Of course what happens when I step back, well… That can can ugly.”

Molly marched towards the Irishman but Severin called her back with a hooked comment. “You never explained, Molls; _why_ do you want us to help this skinny crime lord?”

“ _I am a Prince_!” the skinhead exclaimed.

“Are you?” Jim asked candidly. “ _My_ sources suggest your little granny publicly gave you a _jolly_ good spanking and cast you out.”

Prince Carrion swallowed.

Molly looked between the two. “Are you _sure_ you want to go home?” she asked the skinhead.

He didn't respond. “We have to go somewhere,” Letheo said meekly.

Molly looked at Jim. “Is there somewhere else they can go?”

“And here I thought you were blackmailing that poor boy to make you seem interesting, Nose,” Jim teased. She glowered at him. He added, “I do, however, have an appetite for swapping one bloody ruler with another.”

Prince Carrion stepped forwards like a hound catching scent. “You think _you_ could stand a chance against my grandmother?”

“Oh, darling, it's no fun if it's not a tiny smidge challenging,” Jim responded.

Molly sighed. “Please don't tell me we're going to get arrested again.”

“Not if I can help it,” Severin said over his employer's facetious comment.

Jim sniffed. “Sometimes you need to make your sarcasm a little more clear.”

Severin and Molly cast him sour looks. 

“We should probably get these two somewhere civilians aren't going to bump into them,” Severin stated, sweeping an arm at Letheo and Prince Carrion. “Then we can work out a plan.”

“That sounds sensible,” Molly said. “Granny's boy here is scarred enough that people might take note of him, and we don't want strangers paying attention to Letheo's… skin.”

“You expect me to walk home with that? It has scales, Nose!” Jim protested.

“Would it kill you to ever act with a modicum of tact, James Moriarty?” Molly snapped.

He sulked. “I wouldn't do that even if you paid me in Nutella,” he responded snottily.

“Let's just all head to the car,” Severin sighed.

“I must have been an awful person in my past life,” Jim griped as he headed towards the door. Molly mouthed 'this life' to herself tersely.

Severin looked back at Letheo and the Prince with a wry smile. “Are you joining the madness?”


	8. Chapter 8

“Shotgun,” Jim cried gleefully.

Molly tried to sigh as the short man pushed past her in a dash to the car but she found the corners of her lips twitching despite herself. She had missed the little monster. He had so much _energy_.

Sebastian considered not letting Jim into the car but quickly relented and unlocked the doors. Jim threw open the passenger side and tumbled into the front hard enough for the seatbelt to bruise his hip. The brunet cackled almost obliviously and reached for the radio.

Sebastian growled and batted at the smaller man's outstretched hand. “We have an agreement...”

“Oh, you're no fun,” Jim pouted.

“You're 'fun' enough for both of us,” Sebastian answered. He reached over for Jim's seatbelt and yanked it across the brunet, taking no notice of Jim's spluttered mimicry of choking.

“I could fire you from my life, Basher,” Jim grumbled upon notice of the blond's nonchalance. “And I'm not a child.”

Sebastian chuckled and rested both of his large hands on the steering wheel. “Trust me, Boss, if you were a child I'd keep you in reins everywhere and never allow you sugar. _And_ you'd get a strapping the instant you asked for it.”

“Kinky, aren't you?” Jim grinned. “Whatever shall our new friends think?”

“Oh trust me, Jim, I am _certain_ they're all going to want to choke you too before we've finished our latest escapade.”

Jim snickered unrepentantly and twisted around to squint at the others. “What is _taking_ you so long, Nose? Have your new pets never seen a car?”

Molly did sigh then, and swept out her sleeved arms exasperatedly. “Apparently they usually travel by glyph.”

Sebastian leaned forwards to look at her. “I'm much safer.”

Molly encouraged the others into the long, dark car. “You know what a glyph is then?” she asked.

“Oh, it's bloody unnatural,” Sebastian answered with a grim smile. The way his fingers twitched over the gearstick, impatient for them to be racing away from the curb, made Molly wonder just how bad a glyph was.

Jim clapped his hands in delight. “Oh, Mollikins, you are going to _wet_ yourself when you try a glyph. Not that I'm kinkshaming you. But urgh, you will _scream_.”

“Why do we let you talk?” Molly asked him dryly.

“Because he's such a whiny little bitch whenever we ungag him,” Severin whispered in her ear. Molly laughed and twisted to meet the blond's gaze with amusement. He winked at her and leaned over to help Letheo fasten a seatbelt.

“Trust me, kid, you're gonna want this on.”

Beside them the exiled Prince of Midnight curled his scarred lips. “You expect us to restrain ourselves?”

Molly bared her teeth at him and fastened her own belt. “You're very welcome not to, but you'll die long before you catch up with Candy.”

“Are you threat-”

Severin reached over and snapped the skinhead's belt closed. The Prince gaped at him and yanked sharply at the fastened seatbelt but failed to understand how to release the mechanism.

Severin winked at Molly again. “I think we might need two gags for this journey,” she murmured.

Severin chuckled and took a seat beside her.

The Prince screamed when Sebastian pulled off.

“So,” the blond said, ignoring the skinhead's glare, “are we stopping at yours to pick anything up, Molls?”

“I'll need Toby,” Molly said at once.

“Excuse you,” Jim said indignantly. “I am not going anywhere without sufficient snacks. _Especially_ not the Abarat. Do you _remember_ the freaky things those creatures put in their mouths? Quite willingly and with _no_ torture involved?”

“We'll get you a Happy Meal on the way, Boss,” Sebastian sighed.

Jim raised a brow as though suspicious of being patronised, but he _did_ want a McDonald's, now Seb mentioned it.

“Do any of you want anything?” Sebastian asked.

Letheo fearfully eyed the world flying past beyond their windows. “To live?” he muttered.

Severin twisted and retrieved a paper bag, which he handed to the youth. “In case you're sick.”

The two young men from the Abarat looked revolted. “You bag vomit in the Hereafter?”

Severin blinked whilst Molly could not help but look down in amusement. “Uh, I guess,” Severin said. “It's to stop it getting on your shoes or the upholstery...”

Jim twisted around and pointed a menacing finger at them all. “ _No one_ is puking in _my_ car. Vomit smells worse than death.”

“Um, this is _my_ car,” Sebastian pointed out, his tyres squealing as he turned a corner in fourth gear.

Jim seemed unconcerned about the noise or the speed, but turned and looked down his nose at the larger man. “Well I own _you_ , so this car is mine by proxy.”

Sebastian turned and looked at Jim properly. “Well in that case, perhaps _you_ want to start paying for the upkeep of this thing. Like for every time you get bullet holes in my bodywork. Those repairs aren't cheap, you know.”

“Sebastian, get your eyes back on the road,” Molly said firmly. She twisted around and lightly slapped Jim's shoulder. “And pay for his repairs, you are bound to be the reason people shoot at his car.”

Severin snorted softly beside her. “Have you seen his parking? It's worse than his driving.”

“You can get out and walk if you like, bro!” Sebastian responded, but he kept his eyes on the road obediently like Molly had ordered.

Sebastian tore over a grassy embankment towards the fast food restaurant and frowned. “Hey wait, did you guys tell me what you wanted to order?”

Severin rolled his eyes. “I can't eat that shit.”

Molly touched the blond's arm. “There's a store near where I live. You can get something to eat whilst I pick up Toby.”

Meanwhile Letheo was all but panting out the window at the scent of the unfamiliar food. “What's a Happy Meal?” he asked. “Is it like the Commexo-”

“No,” his skinhead companion told him flatly.

Molly eyed the pair for a moment then twisted around to speak to Sebastian. She put her fingers on the side of his head to remind him not to turn around. “Order them a few burgers or something, will you? I don't know when they last ate. Granny's Boy here was supposedly dead on my slab this morning.”

The exiled Prince of Midnight grimaced. “I order you not to call me that.”

“I accept orders from no one but the Queen of England and the tax man,” Molly said contraily.

The Prince and Letheo looked at each other. “Who is the Tax Man?” Letheo asked. 

His master shrugged his shoulders and stayed silent until Sebastian started talking to a crackling obelisk with a metal grill, which sounded eerily like a teenage girl. “What is that?”

“It's how we get our food in the Hereafter,” Jim piped up imperiously.

Sebastian eyed him sidelong and pulled money from his pocket. “He says that like anything in his life happens without me being the middle man for him.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, should I start letting you be the middle man for your own orgasms?” Jim snapped.

Sebastian's neck turned red as the teenage girl at the kiosk window stared at him. Sebastian stared straight through the windscreen as he handed over the money and muttered a reluctant, “No, sir.”

Molly caught the McDonalds employee grin wistfully at the pair (she couldn't blame the girl, Sebastian was a _very_ handsome man) before having to pout her lipgloss-coated lips to disentangle them from gleaming braces. The girl held out change for Sebastian and after a beat had to clear her throat to get his attention. “Um, Mister Middle Man…?”

The car was filled with Severin and Jim's laughter at Sebastian's response. He almost collided with the car in front in his haste to get to the next window, and hastily threw the hot paper bags at Jim.

Molly twisted around to take some and handed out the food, which Letheo tore into immediately. The skinhead beside him watched in disgust for a moment before hesitantly joining in devouring some nondescript yet warm meat product.

Jim threw his new toy over his shoulder, where it bounced off of the exiled Prince. Molly slapped the small brunet's bicep firmly in chastisement before the Prince could complain, and Letheo picked up the toy curiously.

Molly watched their surroundings quickly blur as Sebastian put his foot on the accelerator again. “I presume you know where I live?”

He grinned but kept his eyes on the road. “Silly question there, Princess.”

She smiled, although she shouldn't. She ought feel annoyed at the violation of privacy but merely felt protected. Molly caught the skinhead looking at her in confusion. ' _Princess_ ,' Seb had said.

Molly chose not to explain, but instead waited until Sebastian had came to a reluctant _absolute_ stop before climbing out of the long car. “I won't be long,” she said. She pointed for Severin. “You'll get biscuits and stuff in there."

The blond sighed as he followed her out of the car. “I don't want to live in a world where I have to eat gluten free cookies,” Severin grumbled.

“Well we're not going to for a while, are we?” Sebastian pointed out. “We're going to the bloody Abarat, where we will be damned _lucky_ to get anything as ordinary as a cookie.”

Severin rolled his eyes. “Should I get you cigarettes?”

Sebastian turned to Jim. “How long is this going to take?”

Jim handed over a gun throw the passenger window. “Just clear them out.”

Severin looked over his shoulder at Molly's retreating back. “She's not going to approve of that.”

“As the King of the International Underworld our little princess will just have to accept my will,” Jim said. “And besides, we're going to be gone for long enough that she won't know.”

“Providing I don't get arrested,” Severin groused, but he took the gun anyway.

“If you can't rob a little store in Minnesota all by yourself, Severin Moran, I am going to strap your bottom once Molly's stopped rupturing my eardrums,” Jim drawled.

Severin blushed and closed the car door with more force than necessary. He ducked his head and walked off in the direction of the shop.

It did not take long before Jim started to get bored. He wriggled and kicked the dashboard a few times until Sebastian forcibly threw down Jim's ankles. “Enough,” the blond warned.

Jim curled his lip brattishly and flounced back against his seat dramatically. He crossed his arms and pouted, “Fine.”

The exiled Prince finished eating and eyed their surroundings speculatively. Letheo continued to toy with the piece of plastic that had came with Jim's meal.

The little Irishman let himself out of the car.

Sebastian sighed. “Jim, where the fuck are you going?” 

Jim spread his arms. “To get some scented candles or a great big bit of semtex...I'll decide in the damned shop. Get back in the car, Sebastian.” 

Molly returned with a rucksack and an empty cat carrier. Toby was wrapped around her shoulders imperiously. “Boys, what are you doing?”

Sebastian put his seatbelt back on. “Nothing.”

Jim spread out a smile for Molly warily. “No-ose I have a big favour to ask of you...”

She tweaked his own and gave him a glare. “Not likely, whatever it is.” She ducked to make eye contact with Sebastian in the car. “Will you open the boot, please?”


	9. The Cave

Molly was still getting used to the fact that America was _huge_. Back home 'driving all day' might have gotten her out of London… perhaps even as far as Scotland… and the journey would realistically not take much longer than a working day. Here in Minnesota driving all day would take you to Seattle, almost twenty-four hours away.

Sebastian's cars tended to be roomy back home -he was, after all, quite a large man- and this American car was particularly spacious. The chairs could be adjusted to be locked into different positions in the back of the car and there were locked boxes where Seb presumably stored weapons. Sebastian's car was practical for transporting a select swat team and was a million miles away from the cramped bucket seats of Jim's various fancier cars.

Ample space to move around in a car was unfortunately relative to the length of a journey. This car was superb if one wanted to nip through to Wales from London (presuming Seb would be capable of handling a right-hand-drive car in narrow city streets and winding rural tracks) but this was not what Molly was used to in her previous experiences of a road trip.

Not at all.

America was huge, and there is only so long anyone can feel comfortable being stuck in a car, regardless of its spaciousness. This length of time was also tightly related to how many people were in said car, and how well these people could get along.

Not particularly well, was the honest answer. Jim could easily start a fight in an empty room, three of the men sometimes killed people for a living, Molly preferred the company of the dead, and the former Prince of Midnight, Lord of Gorgossium… he had more issues under his surface than the amount of maggots his supposedly dead body should have had beneath his skin.

“How much further?” Jim whined.

“Chickentown's that way, so not much further,” Sebastian responded.

“Urgh, Chickentown,” Jim wrinkled his nose in disgust and threw his feet on the dash. Sebastian slapped them off.

Prince Carrion flinched softly at the name of Candy's town and curled in on himself at the memory of being thrown into the high waters. Of being so badly hurt by his grandmother. Of being rejected by Candy.

Letheo watched his master from the corner of his golden eyes and knew to say nothing.

The exiled prince reluctantly eyed his surroundings through the tinted, reinforced windows before sitting up properly and peering out suspiciously. “We are nowhere near the lighthouse,” he announced.

“Of course we're n-”

“That way draws too much attention,” Sebastian explained over Jim's retort.

The prince's scarred lips pursed and he surveyed Minnesota doubtfully. “Isabella won't turn up without being asked.”

Severin shivered. “Where we're going we don't want her to turn up.”

“What? How do you propose we get to the Abarat without the sea?” the skinhead demanded.

Molly understood none of this. She looked to Severin – whom she judged most likely to give her a reasonable explanation when Sebastian ought to keep all of his attention on not getting them all killed or arrested with his particular form of driving- but Sev wasn't looking at her. He was gazing at Letheo thoughtfully. Letheo's faint scales were shining just slightly in the light. Glimmering.

Letheo was not looking at Severin.

“Tunnels, smugglers, criminals – you do the maths,” Jim sneered.

“You cannot get to Abarat without calling the tide,” interrupted the skinhead with an annoyed wrinkle of his nose.

“Shows what you know, Your H...” Jim trailed off and smirked pointedly.

The exiled prince curled his scarred lips away from his gums in a snarl. “I know how to _gut_ you.”

Sebastian verbally stepped between the men. “Relax,” he warned. Molly wished he would focus on the road.

Jim preened coldly. “ _I_ don't need to do my own gutting.”

Christopher grinned and glanced across to Letheo. The teenager's lips twitched and he spread his shoulders proudly.

“Enough!” Molly said sharply. “The only one with any practical need to gut people is me, _and I have the good manners to wait until they are dead first._ ”

Jim pouted. Carrion gave her a surprised, disgruntled look and leaned back in his seat. Letheo watched for the exiled prince's reaction first then relaxed his shoulders. He gave Molly a curious look, and she wondered whether the haughty former royal typically backed down for many people other than Candy and his grandmother.

Eventually Sebastian was out of the city and driving on dirt tracks. There were caves around them and Molly's knuckles turned white as he decided to career off of the road entirely. “Will you not do that!” she snapped.

“This is our route,” Seb responded vaguely apologetically.

Molly sighed. “Great.” She chewed her lip and tried not to grit her teeth as the car bounced heavily over rocky wilderness.

“Your lip's bleeding,” Severin said.

“If that's all that's bleeding when we get out of the car I'll call us lucky,” Molly muttered.

Sebastian snorted and cursed softly at her, swerving the car to a frightening halt just inside the mouth of a cave. He looked pleased not to have smashed into the stone. Jim seemed somewhat disappointed.

“Time to get out and walk!” Sebastian announced.

Jim tisked but let himself out of the car zealously. Severin had to show their guests how to remove their seatbelts. Neither seemed comfortable with the close contact.

Molly got out of the car and stared at the cave walls. Jim was already walking ahead and she followed the noise of him, her eyes on the fossils and make up of the stone.

The skinhead eyed the split tunnels before them suspiciously and strode quickly until he was at Molly's heels. Letheo followed on at his.

The further they walked the more the ceiling descended and the stalactites dripped eerily. Sebastian switched on a heavy torch he had lifted from his car. Molly got the feeling from the way he held it that he was not adverse to using it to bash in the skulls of potential carjackers.

Letheo's eyes gleamed gold in the darkness.

They walked and walked until Molly's legs ached. She could hear a soft noise of discomfort coming from the skinhead – now lagging a little further behind her- and she noted the pained way he moved. Those wounds to his torso were making themselves known.

Nonetheless it was Jim who complained first. For a while the group humoured him, but eventually Molly told him to shut up.

The brunet sniffed. “No one understands me. I'm hungry all the time and no one cares. Why are we here, Sebastian? _I_ don't care about some silly, bald royal.”

Molly curled her lip and spoke before Seb could respond. “Because you're a greedy little psychopath, Jim, and you love nothing more than being the centre of attention.” 

Jim smirked. “Nose! That's entirely too accurate.”

The skinhead himself said nothing about the insult. Molly could tell he was somehow unnerved by their surroundings. He walked slowly and she noticed that Letheo was walking even more slowly still.

“What's taking you so long, boy?” Christopher called over his shoulder. 

“Hurts,” the teen whined. 

“The sooner we get somewhere the sooner you can have your medicine,” Christopher said unsympathetically. Molly got the distinct feeling that he would in reality much rather settle on a rock and dose the teen than go any further, but there was evidently far too much testosterone in the cave for the disowned prince to let go of his pride.

After a while more of Letheo's continued lagging Jim turned and walked back a little. The Irishman's tone was more bored than aggravated. “Hurry up.” 

“I can't go any faster, unless you feel like carrying me,” Letheo griped. His voice was the soft growl of a wounded animal, peppered with teenage ire.

Jim snapped his fingers and called Severin over. “Carry the brat. I want to rest by nightfall.”

Molly watched carefully as Severin made his way over the uneven floor and hoisted Letheo into his arms. Sev's biceps suggested the boy was nothing but the blond's expression suggested something else. The scarred prince seemed astonished by the action but said nothing.

Molly cracked a small smile at him. “I'm not carrying you.”

He did not seem to find her funny.

Jim toddled on ahead. “Sebastian, why aren't you carrying _me_?”

The blond looked down at his torch then rolled his eyes. “Because it hurts my brain being near you?”

“That's why you fancy me,” Jim preened. “I'm handsome, but also deadly. Sebastian, take a picture and caption it this for my Insta.”

“There's no wifi down here,” Sebastian pointed out. 

Jim made a face. “Then what'll I do for entertainment?” he sneered. “ _You_?”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes at Jim. “Your arse is mine when I get you _home_.” 

Jim batted away the warning. “I look forward to discovering what you shall do with my arse.”

Molly knew telling Jim 'no' was generally misunderstood as a dare to do just that. Distraction was the key. She touched a shining stalagmite with faux interest and says, “So what terrible things are on the news that I should not watch?”

Jim glanced at her. “Oh, nothing terribly _interesting_ , Nose.”

The insincerity dripped from his voice. Molly gave him a dry look. “I hope you go to jail.” 

He winked at her, unoffended. “Spent the night there with Sherl after the trial. Bet you're jealous.”

Molly curled her lip. “That's not real jail.”

The fossils were becoming increasingly bizarre. Had Molly given Jim more time to plan this adventure she might have thought he had placed the odd things there as part of an elaborate hoax.

They looked realistic to Molly, but Molly was not a geologist. Molly was a pathologist, and she got the distinct feeling that all of the men in the cave tunnel with her were not telling her something.


End file.
